Spike
by spikeobsessed
Summary: "He hated it because of the memories...The memories of the person he used to be...Shy,vunerable,hopeless William." This is the best I've written, so read it and review!
1. Default Chapter

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The cold drink in his hand did nothing to make Spike feel better as he wandered aimlessly through the graveyard. Actually, he wasn't wandering aimlessly, he was looking for someone; he was looking for *her*. He was looking for the person who haunted him night and day, for the person who he both loved and hated with all his heart, the person who caused him so much pain, but who he just couldn't bear to be apart from. Spike was looking for Buffy Summers : The Slayer. Even her name called forth a million emotions and thoughts. At first he'd just dismissed these feelings, but now he found he couldn't; they were far too strong. Of course he could never tell her about any of this, if he did, he was sure he'd quickly find himself on the sharp end of a very nasty stake. So he kept everything to himself, aware that one day he'd *have* to tell her, or anybody, just to keep his sanity, but also aware that that day didn't need to be for a long time yet. There was no moon that night, so he was relying on his memory, which was getting pretty fuzzy from the drink, to navigate through the graves. This was the time of year he hated more than any other, the time of year he despised almost as much as the incapacitating government chip in his brain which prevented him from killing. It was Spike's birthday. Unlike most people, he didn't hate it because it showed he was getting older, he hated it because of the memories it brought with it. The memories of the person he used to be and hoped to never be again. Shy, vulnerable, hopless William...  
  
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His heart swelled with pride as he watched in anticipation as his father read the first poem William had ever written and seen fit to show the old man. It was his 22nd birthday. John Smith's expression stayed blank as he read through the short one page composition, only when he'd finished it and handed it back did it change.  
"You call that rubbish a poem?" he sneered and watched as his only son's slight smile fell from his young face and was replaced by a look of sadness. John rose from his favourite chair, slightly unsteady from the drink he'd earlier consumed and drew himself up to his full, terrifying height. William cowered in front of him.  
"S-sorry, father." he stammered, trying to grab the piece of paper which held his best work yet from the thick fingers of the man he and his mother feared so. John pushed his son back and took one last look at the poem before proceeding to rip it into shreds. "No!" William exclaimed, but didn't dare step forward and try to stop what was happening before him. When the piece of crisp, white paper was fully ripped up, John threw it at his son's feet and spat on it viciously. William gulped, trying to contain his fear, and started to back away whilst his father reached for his near empty bottle of brandy which he'd been drinking all night.  
"Where do you think you're going, boy?" His deep, rumbling voice halted William, who turned to see John holding the brown glass bottle as though it were a weapon.  
"J-just upstairs, father," He replied meekly "I need to see if mother needs anything." John shook his head and looked at his son with utter disgust, but for what reason, William couldn't place. His mother had been ill with a mysterious disease for coming near a month now and since John spent most of his time in the local pubs, it was up to him to look after her.  
"I'll tell you what she needs," the formidable giant slurred, beginning to advance "She needs someone to put a pillow over her face and hold it there." William was horrified, and he made sure his expression showed it. "Will you do that for me, boy?" John laughed. His son shook his head, desperately searching for an escape route as he recognised the look in John's wide eyes. If he didn't get out soon, he was going to wake up the next morning with a whole lot of bruises. "You disobeying me, young William?" He seemed to be teasing him now. Finally, William made a dash for the door, but John caught him and threw what would be the first punch of many...  
  
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Spike found he couldn't finish the brandy in his hand, discovering it to be tasteless with the memory of his father, and threw it aside. Anyway, he didn't need it, he was already drunk. He sat down heavily on a flat gravestone and hiccuped as he slowly began to count up his age, which by now, he knew to be quite large. His mind, clouded by alcohol, was forced to think. If he was 22 in 1876, that meant he was 26 when he was turned in 1880, that was 121 years ago; so all he had to do was add 26 and 121 together and it was say he was... Spike made a face in the darkness. He was 147. This wasn't old by vampire standards, but it was ancient by his. Everyone he knew had fully expected him to get staked before the turn of the century, but here he was, still walking the earth like he had when he was human. Spike rubbed his temples as his mind made it's complaint at being made to do sums in it's present state, but was momentarily relieved that it had been distracted from it's usual thoughts of Buffy. He glanced around, but she was still nowhere to be seen. He sighed and wished he hadn't thrown his drink away. All of a sudden, Spike found himself longing for his mother, Elizabeth, who he'd never really lost affection for. But he knew best of all that she was long gone, having died 124 years ago to that very day...  
  
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The room was extremely dark when William entered, and he had to struggle to make out the thin figure of his mother under the covers of the small bed she lay in. He closed the door quietly, thinking she was alseep due to her lack of movement.  
"William?" a weak voice croaked, sounding entirely unlike the one his mother had used to sing him lullabies when he was a child, but like the one of a very sick, ageing woman.  
"Yes, mother, it's me." he replied softly, sitting down on the bed next to her. A tiny smile formed on her pale lips, she loved her son more than anything, but he didn't come to see her as much as he used to, not since John had threatened that he was going to get rid of her if he continued to lavish affection on her and stay up there all day. "How are you?"  
Elizabeth coughed as her answer, and William was dismayed to see a thin trickle of blood run from the corner of her mouth. He knew it wouldn't be long before she died, so that was why he'd chanced a visit to her while John was out. "Do you know what day it is?" he asked. She tried to shake her head, but found herself too weak, however, he had caught the movement so told her. "It's my birthday, mother." William whispered, trying to refrain himself from crying as he looked closer at her skeletal body which was dwarfed by all around her.  
"Oh!" She exclaimed with a cough "I had no idea!" He put a hand on her shoulder to stop her from distressing herself and waited for the coughing to cease before comforting her.  
"It's alright, I don't mind in the slightest." He told her truthfully. All he wanted was for her to get better, but that was seeming less and less likely to happen.  
"How old are you now, William my dear?" Elizabeth queried, hating that she had to ask, but knowing that she must.  
"I'm 23, mother." He answered simply.   
"23." she repeated, tears forming in the clear blue eyes which resembled his so much "Why, it seems like only yesterday you were a baby on my lap." Then a tear did fall.  
"Why do you cry?" William asked her, clearly worried. Elizabeth didn't get to answer, but had she been able to, she would have told him it was because she was so proud of him, because at that moment, John crashed through the door. He ordered William out, and when asked why, he replied innocently that he wished for some time with his wife. William reluctantly left the small room, but stood not far from the door. A few minutes later, John emerged and announced that his mother had died...  
  
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An anguished cry echoed through the graveyard as Spike thought over that terrible night. He still didn't know to that day if his father had actually killed his beloved mother, or, as he claimed, that she had just died of natural circumstances. He had once been told that because he had been a willing participant when he had been turned into a vampire, that part of his human soul had stayed on, which would explain why he still felt his heart break when he thought of Elizabeth's death. Spike had done a lot of research after the gypsy had told him that, and found that many cultures believed that even vampires possess souls, but they are different than human souls. And he also found a text which proved the gypsy to be right. He'd never told anyone about that, thinking that he'd be considered a freak if anyone knew. He laughed bitterly.  
"We couldn't have that, could we?" he slurred to the emptiness around him, thinking of how other vampires addressed him now he was chipped. Spike ran a hand through his bleached hair and found himself longing for his natural sandy blond hair colour, the white was cool and all, but it was beginning to get annoying. Plus, Buffy might prefer it. The vampire growled at this thought. He was sick of her taking up all his free thoughts; invading his mind. Just like Cecily had done...  
  
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To others, Cecily was just another one of the many pretty girls who attended the parties thrown by the arisocrats of London, but to William Smith, she was exceptional. He saw her for the very first time on the night before his 25th birthday. He was at a party which was thown every year on the same day to commemorate something or other which William had long since forgotten about. It was a nice coincidence that the party was just before his birthday, it meant that he got to cheer himself up. He was just pouring himself another glass of the whiskey which was on offer, when he heard her voice for the first time. It sounded as sweet as an angel's. William hurredly turned around to see who the heavenly voice belonged to and almost dropped his glass when he spotted her. She stood in the center of the main group of people in a pure white dress, her hair had been piled on top of her head and fastened in place with a beautiful cream ribbon. William leant over to the person next to him, not even bothering to see who it was he was about to address.  
"Who is the woman over there, may I ask?" he queried in almost a whisper.  
"You mean Cecily?" The old man replied. He continued to speak, but William wasn't listening, all he could focus on was her. The room seemed to fade away around him.   
"Cecily." he mumbled to himself, tasting her name on his tongue. He gulped down some of the strong whiskey and left the rest on the side table before nervously wandering over to her as if in a trance.  
"...Last Tuesday." she was saying. William muscled his way through the crowd and stood just on the brink of the group. Finally, the holder of the party, Matthew Thomas, noticed him and motioned for him to come forward.  
"Have you met Miss Cecily, William?" he asked, watching his reaction carefully. It was common knowledge, even to the man himself, that Matthew didn't like him, but he invited him year after year out of respect for his desceased mother who had delivered his wife's child.  
"No, I don't believe so," he managed to answer and held out his hand "William Smith." he announced to the angel in front of him. Cecily extended her own hand and shook his briefly, her pale skin making his own tingle. From then on he was hooked. It was just a shame that she didn't seem in the least bit interested...  
  
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A half smile played over Spike's lips as he remembered how he'd felt whenever he'd seen her. Like all the troubles of life would disappear as soon as she spoke. That wasn't a shade on how he felt about Buffy. He had begun to make his way back to his crypt after realising that he'd probably missed the Slayer, and was making sure he walked extra slow, just in case. The cigarette in his mouth remained unlit whilst he searched for his trusty Zippo lighter in the leather coat he'd taken from the second Slayer he'd killed. He eventually found it and paused to take the first drag of it. Then he was on his way again. Marching back to his personal Hell. Spike wished that the next year's birthday had been as simple as that one. But it hadn't been, he'd gone from each extreme to the next. Sadness that his father had died two nights earlier despite how awful he had been, happiness at seeing Cecily, the profound agony at being rejected by her, and the ecstacy of being made a vampire by Drusilla...  
  
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It was a full moon which lit the graveyard on William's 26th birthday, casting shadows on the faces of those who watched his own grave in anticipation.  
"You know, if he's pathetic we will have to stake him." Darla was saying, mainly to tease Drusilla, but also to tell her what would have to be done in such a case.  
"He's wonderful," Dru sang dreamily, kneeling down to the dirt and running a hand over his name which had been carved into the expensive stone. "I looked into his heart and saw his future." Darla raised an eyebrow, clearly not impressed, she doubted very much that Dru could distinguish the difference between pathetic and wonderful in her confused state. She leant into Angelus, who didn't take his eyes from the newly dug grave. He was actually a bit excited to see who his Childe had chosen to make a vampire, it would be interesting to have someone new in the group, someone he could mould into the kind of vampire he wanted to have around. The ground suddenly shifted and a mound formed in the dirt, out of it shot a pale hand. A few minutes later, William stood before them, glancing around in wonder at what he could see now which he could not see before. Darla cocked her head to one side and stared at him, trying to decide what to make of the dishevelled gentleman before them. He was handsome enough, with some proper grooming he would look better, but there was something in his overall manner she didn't like. It was like he was over-confident in his own quiet way, like a panther ready to pounce. She only wondered if they were his prey.  
"Wondeful." Drusilla whispered, gazing into William's crystal blue eyes. Angelus found himself wishing he could see what she saw. For when she got that look in her eyes, he knew she wasn't seeing what was before her, she was seeing the future.  
"Well, I'm hungry," William announced with a smile, showing off that quiet confidence which Darla had detected "Lets say we go crash a party and have ourselves a nice meal." With that he took Drusilla's arm and began to lead her in the direction of a grand hall down the street that was holding the party which was at first scheduled for the day before but which had been cancelled due to William's own death. Angelus decided he didn't like him. He seemed so sure of himself, even though he'd been completely changed forever; however, he and his Sire followed the pair in front into the hall and watched as William had his first taste of human blood. Of Cecily's human blood...  
  
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For the first time that night, Spike broke into a smile which wasn't tainted with bitterness or anger. That had been one of the best nights of his life. He remembered how Cecily had looked just before she had died; truly petrified. And he remembered how that had made him feel, like a God who had just risen from the Underworld and was wreaking havoc on everyone and everything around him. It was a shame every night wasn't as sweet as that. Spike reached his crypt and tossed away his cigarette before ambling inside, considerably happier than when he'd first left it and taking pleasure that the happiness hadn't stemmed from the Slayer for once. He was about to take off his black t-shirt when he spotted something on top of his old, battered portable t.v set. It was a note addressed to him. He froze, recognising the handwriting at once; it belonged to Drusilla. Spike warily shuffled over and carefully unfolded the piece of paper. A tear fell down his cheek as he read it, not knowing whether it fell from happiness or sadness. Drusilla had written down the poem which his father had shredded all those years ago, and underneath, in her spidery scrawl, had put simply : "Dear Spike, I will see you soon, my love. Drusilla."Spike held the paper to his still chest, amazed how she had gathered the knowledge to write down that poem word for word. That, he decided, was one of the benefits of having a Sire who could see things in the future and the past. He folded the note back up and put it beside his bed. He stripped down to his boxers and clamboured into the double bed he had once shared with Harmony, glancing more than once at the present his beloved had left for him. Just before Spike fell asleep, he almost subconsciously muttered the first word he'd ever heard when he'd risen as a vampire.  
"Wonderful."  
That night, for the first time in months, his dreams stayed free of thoughts and images of Buffy, instead he thought of Drusilla and wondered how long it would be before he saw her again, knowing that when he did, he would finally drag himself away from dreary little William and be Spike once more. 


	2. Part 2

NOTE : Written just before Hells Bells (series 6), but don't worry, you'll still get it if you haven't seen that series/episode yet.   
  
  
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Another year, another reason to be utterly depressed. Spike sighed deeply as he finally conceeded defeat and rose from one of the bar-stools in Willie's bar, where the owner was ushering him out as it was an hour after closing time. He wished he could just erase this day from time. It would make things a whole lot simpler. Actually, no. It wouldn't. He would still lie there in his bed at night, trying to summon the courage to pick up the stake he kept under his bed and use it on himself. He would still walk around each night totally lifeless. He would still miss her. When Buffy had told him it was over that day in his burnt out crypt, Spike's whole world had come crumbling down around him, and ever since then, all he'd wanted to do was get buried in the rubble. Alone with the darkness where he'd never have to deal with anything ever again. The vampire stumbled down the road which he thought led to home, his sad pale face illuminated by numerous neon signs along the way. He was sure he would never feel anything for anyone like he felt for her. Then again, he had thought that about Drusilla, hadn't he? Ah, Drusilla. The person who had provided his one ray of hope when he had endured this same emotional pain on his last birthday. The person who had left that beautifully written note which contained the first poem he had ever shown to his abusive father, which had then been ripped up; and the ten simple words at the bottom of the paper. The ten words he had memorised and prayed for to come true. "Dear Spike, I will see you soon, my love. Drusilla." Only they hadn't come true. Dru *hadn't* come to see him. Just left him to struggle to survive in this brutal world which hated him, and which he hated just as much. Spike sighed again, his un-beating heart heavy with emotion. If only his mother had just decided to remain childless. He would have been saved all this torture, and saved his father the trouble of despising him. The vampire slumped down on the side of the pavement and lit a cigarette. Why *had* his father hated him, anyway?  
  
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Elizabeth smiled warmly at the tiny baby in her arms and silently thanked the Lord he was alright. The birth had been a complicated one, or so the midwife had told her, and it was a small miracle either was still alive. Her husband John hadn't been present, of course, probably wasting his time at a pub, drinking away the money they needed for the little boy she cradled. In truth, Elizabeth hadn't really wanted him there. He had changed over the past few months, acting more distant than usual. He had never been an affectionate man towards her, but she had expected that to change once she was pregnant.  
"No need to worry about that now, though, eh?" she whispered softly to the child soundly sleeping before her. "We're fine here by ourselves, aren't we, William?" Elizabeth kissed him on the forehead gently and came away with a thoughtful expression on her face. John had kept insisting on absurd names such as Joshua-Wayne towards the end of her pregnancy, so if he had returned before she had chosen a suitable name, the poor lad would be teased to no end. "That's what I shall call you, and your father is not going to change my mind." She told the baby decisively. Suddenly, the door to her bedroom was pushed open and her husband marched inside, curling his upper lip in distaste at the sight of his wife looking so disheveled. He had married her because of her looks, it simply wouldn't do if he came home to her looking like this.  
"Couldn't you have tidied yourself up?" he questioned in irritation before coming closer to look at the pink thing in her arms. "A bit small." Elizabeth opened her mouth to tell him it was because he was born prematurely, making it a miracle they were alive, but he continued regardless. "He'll be a disappointment, that one. You can tell straight off." She clutched the child to her chest protectively and John gave a short cruel laugh. "Protecting your son already from the big bad world?" he asked in a mean, teasing voice which made Elizabeth afraid he was drunk again.  
"*Our* son." she corrected him, cleverly avoiding having to give an answer to him.  
"Only he isn't *our* son, is he?" He hissed furiously. The colour drained from her face and she began to tremble. "That's right, Elizabeth, I know just who's son that really is. And it isn't mine."  
  
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Spike shook his head free of any thoughts and just continued to stare up at the black, beautiful sky. A storm was brewing, he was sure. A bit unfair seeing as it had only just stopped raining an hour ago, or so someone at Willie's had told him, but what was life if it wasn't unfair? Still, in the calm before the fury, the midnight sky was captivating. Clouds chasing after each other, only to disappear as another whirlwind pushed through them.  
"Wonderful." He muttered to himself, almost bitterly. His mother had insisted all his life that his father *did* love him. Always making up excuses, like 'he's just tired because of work', or 'I upset him earlier and he's just taking it out on the nearest person.'. Pack of lies, all of them. The only person John Smith loved was himself. Spike had found out through the gossip of others that his father had married his mum only because of her looks, and now found her unpleasing so he found no use for her. He didn't see how that could work. Elizabeth had been a wonderful woman, full of affection for everything. How anyone couldn't love her was beyond him. Spike felt a spatter of rain on his face and slowly opened his eyes, which he had been unaware he'd closed. The moon shone down on him gracefully, highlighting his features and making him look as dead as he was. He didn't want to move. He just wanted to lie there and watch as the heavens fell down upon him. Suddenly, he felt a hand on his arm and jumped in shock.  
"You need any help?" It was a plain looking college student, looking sincerely concerned. Spike laughed quietly and shook his head. Not any kind that she could provide. "You sure?" she was brave, this one. You didn't talk to strangers in a town like this at night unless you had guts. Those guts would have made her his dinner a couple of years ago. He paused, wondering if he would have bitten her if he had been un-chipped. Always admired bravery like that, he had. Even if he hadn't always possessed it...  
  
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William squeezed his eyes shut and wished he could do the same with his ears. The dull sounds of flesh hitting flesh reached him under the covers of his bed where he cowered. His father had come home drunk again and ordered him to bed, and he had been grateful. If he had remained downstairs, it would have been him being hit instead of his mother he was sure, even though his father had never actually hit *him*, and even though it was his birthday. His tenth, in fact. He whimpered as he heard a cry of fear from his mum and felt a tear fall down his face as it was followed by a thud as she presumably fell to the floor. No one else at school had to deal with this. No one else's mother appeared week after week with fresh cuts and bruises courtesy of their alcoholic husband. No one else would have shivered under the covers instead of confronting their mum's abuser. Well, that was what William told himself anyway. He slowly peered over the sheets, as if expecting a monster to appear in the doorway of his tiny bedroom, and sighed in relief as he found no one except his distorted shadow. His scared glance flickered over the few pieces of furniture in his room and he decided to replace the fear lingering in there with him with light from a candle. He lit it and let his eyes do the same sweep of the room before lying back down when he was convinced everything seemed less frightening. Unsurprisingly, this year had been free of presents, just as the other ten before this had been, but William wasn't disappointed. He had learnt not to expect anything, as he would only be let down. Suddenly, the silence which had ascended over the house was broken by a pleading cry for mercy from downstairs. This time, however, William did not hide under the bedclothes. Perhaps the light from the candle had expelled some of his fear aswell as the darkness, or perhaps he had simply had enough, but he was going to do something. He adored his mother, and no longer would he let her be beaten by that brute who called himself a man. William crept down the rickety wooden stairs, unsure now, and stood in the doorway of the front room where his father noticed him. His mother looked worse than usual. Her face was swollen and her slender arms which cuddled him when he cried were covered in cuts. John turned away from Elizabeth, who was willing William to leave on the floor, and gave him a challenging stare. The ten year old child drew himself up, looked the large man right in the eye, and set his jaw.  
"Leave her alone."  
  
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He had received a beating like nothing else on earth that night, and there his bravery as a human had ended. The only saving grace was that now his father hit his mother a lot less, instead favouring him. He remembered how ashamed he had felt having to come into school every other day with cuts and bruises on his face and body. The teachers hadn't done a thing. Not that he had expected them to. They were different in those days, their duty was to teach and nothing more. Spike tipped his head back and let the rain shower down onto his face. It was really coming down now, he would be soaked through by the time he got home. The thought awakened Spike from his daze and he began walking in the direction of his crypt again. It was only when he looked up that he realised he had gone the long way round. The way which took him past the factory where he and Drusilla had once dwelled. The charred ruins looked eerie in the pre-midnight darkness, but Spike remembered a time when it was a place to be avoided if you knew what was good for you. That was back when he had really been respected; not treated as a joke. Images of Drusilla raced through his mind, and along with them came the questions he before hadn't dared address. Why hadn't Dru come back to him? Why had she promised to in the first place? Did he really love Buffy if he couldn't let go of his Sire? The vampire hung his head and forced himself to carry on walking. He needed to get home, he needed to sleep. He needed this day to end. A rain drop dripped off his nose and onto the drenched street, making Spike sniff and wish he hadn't hung about when the storm had been brewing. The ghost of Drusilla's presence haunted him as he walked alone through the deserted village centre. Why couldn't he forget her? Because he was still alive; well, technically.   
"And every hour which I remember holds feeling there within it." It was only after Spike had murmured the line that he realised where it was from. The poem. The one which his father had torn up, and the one which Drusilla had later lovingly given him. If he was right, he had written that composition exactly 126 years earlier to the day...  
  
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William screwed up the latest piece of paper he had been writing on and threw it so it joined the pile which had accumilated by the door of his bedroom. What was wrong with him that night? He had thought that he would have received extra inspiration on his birthday, but if anything, he had fewer ideas than usual. He heard a pained cough from the room next to his and felt his heart ache in protest. His mother had been dying for a long time now, but she had been fading fast recently. He ran a hand through his unruly sandy brown hair and an idea hit him. What if instead of writing about Cecily as he usually did in his compositions, he wrote about his mother? William took a fresh piece of paper, dabbed his pen in the pot of ink and let it hover over the page with his eyes squeezed shut. Then it happened. Ideas flooded into his mind and he found himself almost struggling to keep up.  
" As your life fades slowly into blackness, so does my own,  
And without your love, your life, your presence, I shall truly be alone;  
But as your soul walks with the angels, know this forever,  
Even though your life was short, every second I will treasure;  
For every second holds a memory, as does every minute,  
And every hour which I remember holds feeling there within it;  
But do not fret, my darling saviour, for I do not wonder whether,  
One day our spirits will meet again, and always be together. "  
William read through his short poem and smiled with pride. His heart had poured out onto the paper, then. Telling all it's thoughts and feelings to anyone who would read it. He leant back and sighed in satisfaction as he waited for the ink to dry. Who would he show it to? His first thought was his mother, but then he hesitated. It might upset her, and that was the last thing he wanted. That left father. William bent over and when he was convinced the ink was dry, he picked the piece of paper up and read it over a second time. Yes, he would show it to father. He had never had the confidence before, but surely this was good enough for the eyes of his dad? William took a deep breath and hurried downstairs with the paper in his hand. Maybe now, finally, John would be proud of him.  
  
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The moonlight shone on Spike's pained face as he walked slowly through the graveyard. He hated feeling all this pain and torture, and this regret, and he bloody hated feeling love now that Buffy had rejected him. In fact, he decided he hated feeling altogether. The door to his home creaked loudly as he walked in, and Spike frowned before collapsing on a chair in the middle of the main room. He ran a hand through his bleach blond hair and quickly stopped. That had been a habit left over from William he had never been able to dispell. Among other things, such as - oh he didn't know - his soul. Well, part of it anyway. The vampire lit a cigarette and managed an ironic smile. He had always ripped it out of the Poof because he had a soul, and there he was with almost the same problem. Spike felt his heart ache as he caught Buffy's familiar scent, left over from the last time she had been there, and let his face slide into it's vampiric form. This was what he was; a monster, a killer. He wasn't human anymore, so why the hell did he still have a bit of humanity in him? Stupid gypsy and her stupid...gypsyness. She had come to him the night before he had killed his second Slayer and informed him that part of his human soul had remained behind as he had been a willing victim; therefore telling him he was in fact a freak. Just like the Poof. Only he wasn't. The word 'part' was a key part of that sentence he had heard, meaning that he was still mostly a monster. And that was how he liked it. He wasn't some pathetic vampire with a soul who brooded all day. He was a pathetic vampire with *half* a soul who dished out one-liners all day. And who missed his Sire more than anything in the world. Suddenly, he remembered something. She had left a note on his television the other year, maybe she had left another. He shot up and hurried over to his tv set. His un-beating heart squeezed with pain. Nothing. He was totally and utterly alone. Spike clambered into bed, not caring he was still dripping wet, and closed his teary eyes tiredly. Maybe he would get something next year...  
  
+~+~+~+~+~Later~+~+~+~+~+  
  
She only had about fifteen minutes until dawn, so she decided she must be quicker than anticipated as she hurried into the crumbling crypt. Silence greeted her, as did the sight of Spike's un-moving body, soundly asleep in his bed. A human un-used to the concept of vampires would have assumed he was dead, but she knew different. She knew he was totally alive; or as alive as one of their kind could get. She shook herself back awake from her thoughts and tip-toed over to the peaceful form. He had the slightest of frowns on his face, which made her fear he was having a bad dream, but it promptly disappeared upon her growing closer. He could sense her, even if he thought it only a dream. She wished she could have spoken to him; comforted him even, but she knew that would have been just the wrong thing to do. He needed to work things out on his own this time, learn to struggle. And anyway, he had another pillar of strength, even if he didn't know it. She did, though; just as she knew a lot of things others didn't. Yes, this year would be decidedly better for her old love. Leave him with a better memory than the others this day lent him. Then she would be able to fully return, after the struggle was over. After a contented sigh, Drusilla bent over and kissed Spike gently on the forehead. No note for him this time, just an annonymous kiss, and the fuzzy memory of a dream that felt real. She would leave him with a feeling.  
"For every hour which I remember holds feeling there within it." As Drusilla hurried through the underground sewers, where she was safe from the powerful rays of the sun, a smile appeared on Spike's face. Drusilla must be really off her game if she couldn't tell the difference when he was really asleep or in fact awake. He opened his blue eyes and checked a stolen watch which doubled as his clock. So his birthday was over, and now it was time to get on with yet another year. One which, for some reason, he was sure would out do any recent ones. Maybe it was the early morning light, dappled by the trees outside, or maybe it was the lingering memory of Drusilla's gentle, benevolent kiss, but Spike felt happy. Something he hadn't felt in a very long time. Perhaps feeling wasn't such a bad thing after all. 


End file.
